


What We Ought To Give

by hanwritessolo



Series: The Burden We Share [5]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Found Family, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Second Chances, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27711440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: Sam Drake and Victor Sullivan, both thriving in their unlikely partnership, accept an offer from a mysterious benefactor who hires them to recover a fabled ancient artifact of a medieval Welsh king. The task is close to impossible considering an old adversary of Victor—a ruthless Hermetic secret society with a new and equally ruthless leader at that—makes a dangerous comeback and is out for their heads. Still, as far as fortune-hunting goes, they are up to the challenge. But things take a couple of unprecedented turns when their paths cross with unlikely allies, reunite with familiar faces, and Sam is forced to face a past with a former flame he thought he has long forgotten.
Relationships: Nadine Ross & Original Character(s), Samuel Drake & Nadine Ross, Samuel Drake & Victor Sullivan, Samuel Drake/Original Character(s), Samuel Drake/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Burden We Share [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1520453
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. The Mischief Maker

In southwest London, right at the end of Darlaston Road in a snow-covered, three-storey Edwardian house, Bonnie is picking the lock of an oaken door that leads to Mum's study. She'd been cracking on with it for a solid minute, twisting a tiny paper clip inside the keyhole with a keen, clinical concentration. _I need to get inside,_ she thinks repeatedly like a mantra, bristling in urgency, _I have to I have to I have to,_ as if unlocking the door is a matter of life and death. 

And it might as well be in more ways than one, in her opinion. 

She pushes the threat of that foreboding thought aside with great effort. Her lips purse into a little frown, her face more determined now as she turns the wire as carefully as she could. She steadies trembling hand once again. It is an unbearably chilly evening. 

After approximately five minutes, thirty-three seconds, and a quiet moment of sheer panic, Bonnie finally hears that soft, triumphant click. 

She cautiously turns the knob, slips inside the room, shuts the door behind her. The study is cold and dark, and it immediately welcomes her with the familiar air of old books and leather, of the sweet scent of lavender and rosemary that will forever remind her of Mum. In that small fraction of a moment, her worries return, fills her with a strange ache to see her mother again, to make sure she is safe and—

“I knew you’d sneak your way in here.”

The voice comes from behind her, startling Bonnie in a way that leaves her wildly pounding heart dropping at the pit of her stomach. She turns quickly, fists raised for a fight—and in that same breath, the light from a floor lamp at the corner of the room flicks open. 

A silhouette of a figure is sitting casually on an armchair, one she recognizes in a heartbeat.

Bonnie heaves a sigh of relief, somehow torn between the immense comfort that it’s just her brother and the need to immediately punch him square in his annoying face.

“Scout,” she says dryly by way of greeting, “for heaven’s sake—that was _not_ funny at all.”

“Oh, it is sort of funny.” Scout exhales a small laugh, sluggishly rises from his seat and turns on the rest of the lights. Bonnie sees he is wearing his favourite grey Star Wars hoodie which never fails to make him appear a little too scrawny for his own good, his dark and curly hair a proper mess, his face pale and tired. 

He has been worrying about their mother, too, and Bonnie could see that much. 

“So,” Bonnie begins, crossing her arms over her chest and feigning indifference, “how did you even know—”

“—that you’re going to bust your way here in Mum’s study?” Scout finishes off. “Call it a twin’s instinct. I sensed you were about to do something very stupid.”

“Fuck off.”

Scout snorts a cheeky laugh. Despite his obvious weariness, a smile manages to cross his face. “I have to admit,” he says, “the look of shock on your face earlier was worth every minute I was waiting in the dark.”

“Right, while you’re so fucking extra for engineering that whole entrance,” she replies crisply. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment, my little sister.” Scout walks over to Bonnie, claps a hand over her shoulder, which she swats away. It may sound rather silly, but it still annoys her even to this day how Scout often considers her as the youngest sibling when they are literally both seventeen, and he is only older than her by thirteen ridiculous minutes. “Anyway,” he adds, “after messing with my door, it still took you long enough to open this one.”

Bonnie rolls her eyes. Scout, however, remains smiling and amused. Truth be told, she had been practicing picking the lock of her brother’s room for days just for kicks, so he had all the right to be this absolutely fucking petty. And he had the right to gloat because he has always been better at this lock picking business. But it’s not like she planned on doing this. Scout certainly had not planned it, either. She is fully aware that this very deed betrays one of the many important things that all the women in their family had taught them—which is, of course, not to pick locks like a bloody thief and intrude on anyone’s private quarters without permission—but she felt that the dire situation they find themselves in now demands an exception. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures as one would often say, Bonnie decides. 

“So what on earth are you doing here exactly?” she asks. “I thought you didn’t like the idea of snooping around?”

“Yeah, I did say that, didn’t I?” Scout nods, and something about the sudden strained expression on his face slightly worries her. He goes on to dig something in the pocket of his hoodie. “But, well. It was before I got _this._ Have a look.” 

Scout hands Bonnie his smartphone. The tempered glass is cracked along the edges, she could not help but notice, and there on his screen is a text message from an unknown number that simply reads:

_Topnotch lace sold. Inn her adjustable form. Vain frivolous rock toll. xx_

“Uh, okay.” Bonnie looks at Scout, visibly confused. “I mean, this could well be a spam message, and it doesn’t even make any sense—“

“Seriously, Bonnie Louise.” There is a stern sense of urgency in Scout’s voice, and his use of her wretched full name says just as much. “I beg you—do read it again,” he insists. “Please.”

Bonnie hesitates for a second, then relents with a sigh. “Fine, fine.” Out loud, she begins to read, “Topnotch lace…”

The pause that follows is all at once fearful. A sudden realization hits Bonnie, and so does the utter disappointment in herself. Coming from a family whose idea of entertainment are puzzles and word plays and board games, and with Mum teaching them to code and decode computers as a means to pass the time, she should have easily known what that message meant the moment she read those words. 

Bonnie looks gravely at Scout. 

“This is an anagram,” she says with alarming certainty. “Mum sent this?”

“Clearly. I mean, sending an anagram for us to solve then signing it with _xx?”_

“Yeah, that screams Mum alright.”

Scout drifts to the desk sitting in the middle of the room, and goes on to examine the old globe that rests between an orderly tray of letters and a neat pile of books that exhibits Mum's saintly tidiness. “Look, she was supposed to come home yesterday,” he says. “For her not to answer our calls is already unlike her. And now we get something like this from an unknown number after she’s gone completely off the grid? It’s just...”

Bonnie swallows. The worry she has been nursing in the last thirty-six hours is now a heavy lump in her throat. She has been in denial for the most part of it, but hearing it from her brother felt like a jarring confirmation. _Completely off the grid._ Only two days ago, Mum had called telling them how much she already looked forward to coming home after a tiring month-long conference in Cardiff, expressing her eagerness to take Scout and Bonnie on their usual Saturday brunch at Saucer and Cup as soon as she got back, even promising a trip to Borough Market to buy their favourite blueberry muffins and chocolate custard doughnuts that Bonnie always loved.

Then came yesterday morning when Mum didn’t show up at Waterloo Station where Scout and Bonnie were supposed to pick her up. 

Now, they couldn’t even reach her, not on her phone nor her email which she checks religiously, leaving them both agonized with the unnerving possibility that she has truly gone missing. 

Or worse.

“You think she’s in trouble,” Bonnie says grimly, the sentence coming out as a statement rather than a question. She hates that she now finds herself saying it out loud.

“I don’t want to think of it,” says Scout. He is absently twirling the globe, lets it stop at an abrupt halt under his finger. He looks at Bonnie. “But it’s hard not to. And…”

“And what?”

“Well—uh, I don’t know. What if...” He hesitates. He buries his hands inside the pocket of his hoodie, shoulders lifting to a shrug. “What if… we just call Gran? Or Aunt Ems perhaps? Or call—”

“Now don’t you dare suggest we call the police because—”

“No, of course I wasn’t going to suggest that!”

Bonnie raises a brow and spares Scout a cutting glance. Outside, the squeal of passing cars occupies the momentary silence.

“Alright, fine,” he relents, waves a hand. He finds himself leaning on the edge of the desk. “Maybe I was considering that idea. I’m getting desperate.”

“So you are. But you know very well we can’t do _that._ Especially involving Gran or Aunt Ems. Mum would go mental.” 

“I know. And it would... complicate a lot of things.”

“And with the police, you know with Pápa’s connections—“

“Now there’s no need to remind me about _that,”_ he cuts sharply. “Or that man, either.”

“Well, you brought the idea upon yourself.”

“Yeah, and I’m already regretting it.” He scoffs, shakes his head. “But seriously, Bonnie,” he says, “you really should stop calling _him_ that.” 

Bonnie says nothing and only winces an uneasy smile. _Of course. He’s angry at him still._ She knows her brother well enough to know that the quiet and impassive look on his face cannot veil the sharp edge in the tone of his voice.

“So, anyway,” she says, smiling awkwardly and decidedly eager to change the subject, “enough about that. We still have this anagram to worry about.” She crosses the room over to her brother and hands him back his phone. “Have you tried cracking on it already?”

“Partly, yeah—but no luck with the rest of it,” he admits defeatedly. For a brief moment, he fiddles something on his phone. “Here, the second sentence, see—“ he stands next to Bonnie, shows her the screen of his phone which now has a notepad app opened— “it should go as _'find the amber journals’_ and of that I’m quite sure because—”

“Mum’s thick ass leathery Moleskine notebooks. Aren’t those the ones labeled in Welsh?” 

“If I remember correctly, yeah. Which is why I thought of going here, search through her drawers or something.”

“Right.”

“But then you barged in here, too, so… might as well we figure out the rest of the text message now.” He shrugs, runs a restless hand at the back of his neck. “And... well, I know where my strengths lie, and I thought you’d get a better handle at this stuff. You’re much better at deciphering anagrams than I am.”

Her eyes narrow at him, and a tiny smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Really now? Oh my dear, sweet wombmate—”

“Dear lord, stop with that annoying—”

“Did you just admit that _I'm_ better—”

“Hey, don’t push your luck. I won’t say it again.”

“Whatever,” she snaps back, still positively amused. “I wasn’t even going to try anyway.” 

Bonnie makes her way behind the desk and picks up a pen, rips out a sheet of paper from one of Mum's notebooks, starts scribbling the text that she now has committed to memory. _Topnotch lace sold. Inn her adjustable form. Vain frivolous rock toll._ How painfully odd. She keeps in mind what her brother has lifted out from this rubbish and writes it at the very top corner of the paper. _Find the amber journals._ She deconstructs the remaining words, the pen now her sledgehammer, and the letters spill onto the page like rubble. She builds and rebuilds them into new words— _call, look, victorious?_ —arranges and rearranges them into even newer sentences that still hardly make any sense. 

And she stops at one that finally does. 

Bonnie stares at her own sloppy handwriting. “Holy shit.”

“What’s the matter?” Across from her, Scout gives her an intrigued look. “What did you get?”

She pushes the paper in front of him, points at her last written sentences.

Scout reads it in silence and makes a soundless _oh_ at the end of the page that goes:

_Do not call the cops. Find the amber journals. Look for Victor Sullivan._

Bonnie nods. “Well then,” she says. “Good to know we’re all on the same page about not calling the cops.”

“Of course,” says Scout. “But there’s something more interesting here and I have a lot of questions.” His face creases into a serious frown. “Like, for instance, what I want to know now is... who on bloody earth is Victor Sullivan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last part of The Burden We Share, something I've been quite reluctant to post and share because I wrote this mainly for my own satisfaction and entertainment lmao. Anyway, this would largely chronicle a certain gig Sam and Sully would be taking in London from two desperate teenagers (hint: these two troublemakers right here) sometime after the events of [What We Owe To Each Other](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21043001) (and in-game canon, a couple of months after TLL). 
> 
> I've been keen on writing this because 1) I wanted to explore the idea of Sam and Sully finally working together considering how tumultuous their relationship had been when they first met; 2) I also wanted to give more nuance and growth not just for the canon characters but also for my OCs who I've introduced in this series—but then, of course, special shout out to Sam, who carries fifteen years worth of emotional baggage post-prison, and also given that London is such a significant city for him with respect to my version of events in [What We Are Willing To Lose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22987465); and lastly, 3) I wanted to wrap up this series and tell it not only from Sam's perspective but also from two other characters' POVs, how one's story can actually be so closely connected and weaved into someone else's.


	2. Sam Drake

“First of all,” says Victor tartly to the unreasonable antiques collector on the phone, “I’m a goddamn businessman, pal.” 

Sam shakes his head and tries not to laugh. He can tell by the way Victor aggressively mashes his finest cigar on the ashtray in front of him that he is nearly losing his patience. He’s been listening to Victor’s conversation for a while, the two of them sitting outside a café in the middle of a snow-blanketed Trafalgar Square, his partner’s ongoing negotiation just as cold and bitter as the cheap cup of coffee in his hand. He takes another sip, winces at the taste. This afternoon is also just as cold and bitter, Sam nonchalantly decides, which is a sentiment that is a stark contrast to the bright and bustling Central London with its milling crowds, its book shops and thrift stores, people spilling out of buildings and onto its streets decorated in candy canes and lovely wreaths and colourful lights. 

The air is vibrant with an outrageous shock of Christmas. And everywhere screams of the heavy nostalgia of an old life of almost seventeen years past.

Sam drains his sordid coffee, crushes the empty paper cup, forces himself not to let the dangerous thread of thought unravel. Quite frankly, to find himself in London at this time of the year—or any time of the year for that matter—isn’t exactly at the top of his list. He’s keen to accept any job in all parts of the world. Just anywhere but _here._

A strange call from a few weeks ago happened to change all of that. Sam wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that anonymous client who had the ridiculous notion of requesting to retrieve the coronet of Owain Glyndŵr, an artifact believed to be among the treasures buried in the Welsh king’s final resting place. He honestly thought the proposal was a joke; Victor thought just as much, too. As far as Sam’s knowledge in Welsh history is concerned, not even the slightest shred of evidence has been uncovered with regards to the whereabouts of Glyndŵr’s tomb, let alone the existence of this mysterious crown. If anything, most of the stories surrounding Glyndŵr are nothing more than myths and folklore. 

But when Sam and Victor received a map to a possible location in South Wales and a generous downpayment of £10,000 transmitted to their bank accounts, it didn’t take long for them to be convinced otherwise. What choice do they have but to accept the client’s invitation to personally meet in London and discuss this potentially groundbreaking discovery in great detail?

At the time, flying to the UK and returning to this city seemed alright. Sam thought he could bear it well. He’s over it, the things that happened here. At least, that’s what he’s been trying to tell himself on the flight over. _We’re here on professional business, nothing more._ Besides, it should be easy to go out of his way to _not_ be reminded of things. He could always try to forget. 

Except he is never quite good at forgetting. Never quite good at lying to himself, either.

Remembering is what he does best, and so does this city. London is a city full of history after all. And for someone who loves the beauty of it, how ironic it is that he couldn’t stand to face his own. Take, for instance, the impressive architecture of the National Gallery standing proudly behind him. He used to wait for her at the Sainsbury Wing, a box of pancakes and a bouquet of lilies to always welcome her by. Its halls have carried all his secrets. The walls have seen the way he loved her like no one else.

This city is clearly full of triggers, and to return here is to navigate carefully around all the landmines he unwittingly planted in that year and a half he spent living a life he could no longer recognize. There is one in Covent Garden where he took her to spend their Saturday nights participating in every pub quiz there is; another spot at Earl’s Court in a second-hand record store where she bought him a turntable and a vinyl of Fleetwood Mac for his birthday; then one more at Paddington—perhaps the most significant of them all—where a two-storey red-brick Victorian in Maida Vale that houses a one-bedroom flat was once a place they called their home. He should have known better that the bitter odds of stumbling into the lingering smoke of an old flame are staggering. The memory of it still burns. This city might as well put him to the torch, feed him to the flames, sear her name on his skin, replay every second of his life back in 1999 like a broken movie reel because really, all he could think about is _her,_ her hand on his, _his Jane—_

“Hey, Sam—you okay?” 

Sam turns and sees Victor, one firm hand over his shoulder, staring at him with a notably concerned look on his face. He blinks. He didn’t even notice that Victor’s call had already ended. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” says Sam, somehow sounding a little strained. How long he zoned out staring at the façade of the National Gallery, he couldn’t tell now. “Uh, so,” he goes on, forcing a smile, “how did that call go, by the way? I assume it didn’t end well for the poor fella. I had a feeling that guy’s bad news.”

“And a bad negotiator, too,” Victor adds. “That son of a bitch was trying to outwit our deal as if he didn’t owe us shit.” He smiles, his studying gaze still not leaving Sam. “So. You sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, of course.” Sam extracts a cigarette from his jacket pocket, lights it. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing.” Victor shrugs. “Looks to me you’ve just been missing Darcy pretty badly.”

“No, Jesus—of course not,” he exhales between drags of his cigarette, his lie as fragile as his breath. How Victor straightforwardly says her name slightly unnerves Sam that all he can muster is a small laugh. “Not at all. I was just thinking about this benefactor of ours. Glyndŵr. The rest of this stint.”

Victor nods thoughtfully and smiles. “Kid, you’re getting a little rusty with lying. Try again.” He rises from his seat, dusts his coat a little. “Oh, but now that you mentioned it… we should probably get going.”

Sam shoots him a confused look. “Hold on a sec—get going where? Didn’t we agree to meet with our client right here?”

“Apparently, there’s been a change of plans,” says Victor. “Before we were rudely interrupted by that pain in the ass phone call, I got a text from our client. Gave me an address. 58 Martin's Lane? That place sound familiar to you?”

Sam swallows, runs a hand over the back of his neck. _More than familiar,_ he thinks in an instant. _Landmine._

“That’s in… Covent Garden,” he tells Victor. “It’s not far from here.”

“Great. I could definitely use a walk.” 

Sam stubs his cigarette out, leaves it in the ashtray. As he gets up on his feet, he begins to ask, “Did they mention any reason why they wanted to meet there instead? I mean—“

“They figured we’d prefer somewhere warmer and more private. Here—“ Victor shows Sam his mobile phone with a text message from an unknown number. It reads:

_58 Martin’s Lane. Much better to meet someplace private—and warmer, too. You’ll know you’re there when you find the griffin._

Sam heaves a sigh that comes out as a wry laugh. It’s too much, this city. Out of all the pubs in Central London, and of all the places for this client to choose from for them to meet, it really had to be _there._

_Landmine, landmine, landmine._

“You know where that is?” asks Victor, taking his phone back. “We could always use that Google Maps thing—“

“Nah—it’s fine. I got it, Victor,” says Sam. Unease churns deep in his gut. “As it happens, I know just the place.”

Griffin’s Lair is just as tastefully sleek as Sam remembers it, though with a few notable changes. First and foremost, the interiors appear to be a bit more refined now: the seats in the booths upholstered in red velvet, packed mahogany bookshelves on its corners, the rows of framed abstract paintings hanging on its wood-paneled walls. There’s also a newly-built game area, complete with a not-so-shabby dartboard and a pool table. It must have been recently renovated, Sam decides, given how the faint smell of lacquer and paint lingers in the air. All that remains the same are the glass cabinets of vintage liquor lining the walls, the exquisite serenade of jazz music, and of course, the signature red swing door at the other end of the room.

“Now then—would you look at that,” says Victor, taking a seat at the bar and looking rather pleased. “This place is fancy. No wonder Lola had a fine taste in liquor. Had I known she owned a pub like this back in ‘98, I would have tried asking her for a bottle or two.”

Sam laughs. On their walk from Trafalgar Square to this particular area in Covent Garden, Victor had pressed for answers about how Sam knew the address that he had managed to skirt around the subject and only briefly explaining tidbits like, for instance, how it was an art studio-slash-hideout for one immensely talented Lola Griffin. That kept Victor all the more intrigued. It’s hard not to answer his questions, considering his persistence. 

And it is almost painful having to avoid another subject like a plague and shape his answers without having to mention _her._

“But you should know,” says Sam, “it’s important to note that the pub didn’t always look like this.” He sits at the barstool right next to Victor. He looks around, quickly scans a couple of faces seated on the tables and booths. There are only a handful of people at this time of day, he observes, and they all look either couples out on a date or a group of posh-looking businessmen. No one out of the ordinary. Typical Londoner crowd just going about their day.

“But do you think Lola has anything to do with this stint?” asks Victor. He then waves a hand at the bartender, orders two glasses of whiskey, on the rocks.

Sam shrugs. “I doubt it. It’s not exactly her field. Besides, she’s straightforward when it comes to affairs like these. If she wanted to work with anyone, she would directly reach out to them without hiding behind anonymity.” He pauses, sighs. _And after everything I’ve done, I’m pretty sure I’m her last choice for this job,_ he begins to think. _She’ll most likely want me dead, too._

The bartender returns with two glasses. Sam takes the other, clinks it against Victor’s. He drinks and lets the liquor burn the thought away.

“Now what?” asks Sam after a while. “Did our mysterious client happen to mention how we’ll find them here or do we just ask the—”

“Mr. Victor Sullivan?”

A tall and a finely dressed woman in an impeccably tailored beige tweed suit sidles next to Victor, a bottle of beer in hand, her voice a low and deep cut into their conversation. She has a stern yet lovely face; her eyes are a deep amber, and her neatly braided hair a graceful sweep over her shoulders. Still, there is a certain cheerless air about her, something which said she seldom smiled. But the way she carries herself—the posture, the strong gaze of her brown eyes—makes her so striking in a room full of people. 

And for reasons beyond him, Sam doesn’t quite remember spotting the woman anywhere in the pub, which he finds somewhat odd.

Victor swivels a little in his seat to face their new companion. “Yes, that would be me,” he acknowledges amiably. “I’m sorry, are you—”

“Certainly not the benefactor you came here to meet.” The woman smiles stiffly. Her accent gives away the warm hint of Nigerian, Sam observes. “Oh, do forgive me for my poor manners. My name is Ada, Mr. Sullivan.” She sets her bottle down the counter and offers her hand; Victor firmly shakes it. “Very pleased to meet you. And, uh...” 

Ada coughs slightly. She glances at Sam, then slowly back at Victor. 

“Samuel Drake,” announces Sam, slightly waving a hand by way of introduction for Ada’s sake in response to the question _who exactly are you?_ that the fine lady has managed to whittle into a singular expression on her face. “Pleased to meet ya, too.”

“Uh, likewise… Mr. Drake,” replies Ada awkwardly, fiddling at her cufflinks. “I’m very sorry—I didn't mean to offend. We were under the impression Mr. Sullivan would arrive… unaccompanied.”

“It’s fine. Sam and I are business partners.” Victor slaps an affirming grip over Sam’s shoulder. “In fact, he knows more about this Glyndŵr fella than I do. I’m just the guy who flies the plane.”

“Not true. He’s also the guy who keeps the books,” quips Sam. 

Victor huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well—there’s that, I suppose.”

“I see.” Ada nods, turns to her drink, drains it empty. After an uncomfortable minute, she gives both men another one of her strained smiles, then furtively signals the bartender at the other end of the bar.

The gesture is not lost on Sam, which all the more makes him curious—and suspicious. 

“Alright then,” says Ada as she straightens her suit jacket. “I hope you don’t mind if we get on to business, ah? My friends are waiting.” 

_Friends?_ Sam and Victor exchange a brief look.

Ada walks ahead and ushers both men past the booths and dining patrons, and although Sam had been hoping for her to _not_ lead them through the red swing door, it is exactly where she takes them. Much like the rest of Griffin’s Lair, this small area is just how Sam remembers it, flash-frozen in time: the old jukebox, the painting of a pirate ship, the _Authorized Personnel Only_ plastered on a green door. 

A moment of hesitation passes, and Sam asks the obvious question: “This is the way to Lola’s studio, right?” 

He looks at Ada to gauge her reaction. She returns his gaze blankly, then says, “So you’re acquainted with Ms. Griffin?” 

“Ah, yes. Sort of.” An understatement of the year, but he goes with that weak answer nonetheless. “Worked on a stint with her many years ago,” he attempts to clarify.

“Oh. I see.” Ada tinkers with the jukebox, seemingly browsing at the records. “Unfortunately, the basement is no longer Ms. Griffin’s studio. It serves a different purpose now.”

Victor raises a brow. “And what kind of purpose is that, if I may ask—”

As if aptly timed to answer Victor’s question, the portion of the wall with the pirate ship painting pushes back and reveals the secret passage—something that clearly surprises him—just as the music in the pub smoothly transitions from a catchy jazz record to a beat of a song that Sam knows so well. 

Bruce Springsteen’s _Hungry Heart._ Bruce fucking Springsteen. 

The laugh that escapes him scratches raw with self-derision. He never quite understood it before, how people can be so attached to a song as though it carried significant years of their life. He sees it now, understands it fully, lets it sink in and marinate. Here, the music swells with the memory of her dancing in their kitchen, her smile beckoning for him to come over, the sound of her voice singing _everyone wants to have a home—_

“I take it you’re not a fan of The Boss?” asks Ada, who is somehow staring curiously at Sam as if he had just glitched. Which might as well have been the case.

“Oh, no—I mean, yes. He’s a legend.” Sam smiles, but it feels a little wooden on his face. Behind him, he can sense Victor’s knowing gaze burning the back of his head. Heaven forbid, he has to get his shit together, he decides. This is not the time for him to lose his shit. 

“Alright, okay then,” Sam says coolly. “Shall we?”

Ada gestures a hand to the doorway. “After you, gentlemen.” 

Sam and Victor trade another glance. A brief second of reluctant passes before Sam goes ahead, with Victor and Ada close behind.

The short descent to a narrow corridor opens into a room that now looks nothing like Lola’s underground studio. It is as if they have been transported into a different time and place where a late 18th-century library has been preserved in pristine condition: walls decorated with ornately-woven Georgian tapestries; Moroccan rugs resting over polished parquet floors; mahogany shelves brimming with books from floor to ceiling; a large antique desk with a scrabble board and a vintage globe. A bronze bust of an unnamed figure with an odd, bowl-cut hair sits comfortably on a pedestal in the middle of the room. At the farthest corner, a pair of settees the colour of deep moss flank a coffee table with old newspapers piled atop its surface. There’s a faux fireplace next to it, too, and on the wall right across from it are three sets of doors, green and orange and purple, which starkly appeared out of place in this startling, artificially-constructed antiquity.

And of course, Sam is quick to notice the security cameras installed on every corner. 

“I’ll be goddamned—a fancy basement for a fancy pub,” says Victor, equally intrigued and impressed.

Sam wanders to a nearby shelf, runs his fingers over the filigreed spines of books, all of which are properly labeled and coded. Some of the titles, he sees upon closer inspection, are really not that old. “So what made Lola decide to transform her studio into... this? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.” 

“No, I certainly do not mind, Mr. Drake,” answers Ada as she moves to where the settees are. There is a crispness to her tone, a politely veiled disdain. “Ms. Griffin had this space repurposed for the benefit of her godchildren.”

“Godchildren, you say?” Sam arches a brow, an amused smile passing his face. “I thought she didn’t like kids. Like, in general.” Which was a true and honest account on Sam’s part. It was years ago, but when Cutter hosted a birthday party for his nephew, Sam still remembers well how Lola tried her best to avoid being surrounded by kids. At a _children’s_ party. It was hilarious, now that Sam thinks about it.

“Ah yes, that remains true to this day,” agrees Ada. “But these children… they are an exception. She’s quite fond of the rascals.”

“And you don’t seem fond of them.”

“I’m hardly fond of anyone, frankly speaking.” 

“Oh. Right.”

This time, Ada flashes a smile that can be hardly considered friendly. It is more of a wince, a threat. “Anyway,” continues Ada, making her way next to the fireplace, “to answer Mr. Sullivan’s interrupted question a moment ago: these days, this area makes for an escape room. Patrons of the pub who are keen to test their wits often visit and take up the challenge.” She directs her stern attention to Sam. “Which is exactly what we’ve prepared for the two of you. Except we made it a little more… interesting.”

Sam frowns. “Wait, I’m not sure I understand. What do you mean by an escape room? I—”

Before Sam could even finish the rest of his sentence, the door leading back to the pub upstairs slams loudly shut. Surprise leaves him to a stuttering pause when he hears a familiar click and sees Ada pull out a pistol from her suit, pointing it squarely at his face.

A stunned silence. Sam and Victor look at each other, then firmly fixing their eyes on Ada.

“Alright, miss,” says Victor, slowly raising both his hands, making a careful approach in front of Sam, “we’re only here to discuss the terms of this stint, I don’t think the gun is really necessary—“

“Hand me your weapons,” she commands.

“I assure you, we’re not armed—”

“And I assure you that I am not daft, Mr. Sullivan,” she snaps, now pointing the gun at Victor. “What exactly do you call the handgun holstered on your back, ah?” 

Sam swallows. He sees Victor hesitate for a moment, but they know well it is unwise to lie at this point. 

They both surrender their guns and set them down on the coffee table. 

“Good. Don’t worry, I won’t shoot. Yet.” She casually gestures her pistol-wielding hand to the settee in front of her. “Now please take a seat, gentlemen. Go on.”

They both oblige, begrudgingly planting themselves on the sofa across Ada, not letting their sights off of her even for a second. Sam was right to have been wary of her the moment he saw her; all his cruel years in prison have sharpened his gut when it comes to sensing trouble. And without a weapon to protect him, he felt inevitably and completely naked. It would have been great if their circumstances with her had proved him wrong. He hates being wrong, that much he can admit, but if being wrong meant making this stint far less troublesome, he’d take that any damn day than having his shit-sniffing senses to be right. 

Perhaps he’s grown weary of misfortune following his trail. It would be nice to have it off his back for once.

And so the next thing he does is formed out of habit. He finds himself studying her, assessing her stance, carefully considering his next move in order to disarm her and—

“If you’re thinking of tackling me to the ground, Mr. Drake, that would be a very stupid thing to do,” Ada warns. 

Sam grimaces. It vexes him that the very thought that's been taking shape inside his head has been read so casually. “So what exactly do you want from us?” he demands. 

“It’s simple, really. For you two to prove that you are worth every penny of that downpayment and that you are actually capable to do this job.” Ada takes a seat on the settee right in front of them, rests one hand over her lap, the gun-wielding one on top of the other. “See, we’ve heard of your successful exploits. But we want to make sure that we hired the right people and not just petty thieves,” she chides. “Past this test and no harm will come to your pretty white heads.”

“Pass the test, huh?” Victor repeats. He seems surprisingly relaxed considering the current state of things. He leans back, lights one of his cigars, exhales a plume of smoke. “And what kind of test is this?”

“Ah, just two things actually. First: since this is clearly an escape room, you will have to find the right door that will lead you out of this study,” Ada explains plainly. “There’s a letter on that desk that will help you get started.”

“Okay then. And what’s the second?”

“Figure out the mechanism of this ring.” 

Out of her suit pocket, Ada fishes out a small golden band the size of a coin, slides it over the coffee table and across to Sam and Victor. Sam is the one who picks it up, begins to examine it closely. The ring is thick and forged in solid gold; it appears to be a late 14th-century Roman relic judging by the intricate carvings around its surface. But there’s something peculiar about its design, Sam notices, with how certain lines of the drawings do not seem to meet, an oddity he could not put his finger on just yet.

“This doesn’t seem to be just another prop in this escape room of yours,” says Sam a matter-of-factly, studying the ring in his hand. He then turns to Ada and asks, “Where did you get this?”

“I’ll let my companions do the explaining once you solve that ring and get out of this room,” replies Ada. “For now, you should be more concerned in figuring this all out ‘cause the time you have for all of this—“ she glances at her watch, clicks her tongue, and finally, for the first time, the smile that spreads on her lips is genuine, one that is bright but with an eagerness to draw blood— “oh, that’s right, gentlemen. You only have thirty minutes. This should prove quite easy for professionals like you.”

Victor scoffs, mashes his cigar on one expensive-looking ashtray clearly out of annoyance. “Thirty minutes is not enough time. You have got to be kidding me—“

“Time starts now.”

In the interest of their very limited time and with their lives at stake, Sam and Victor make no further inquiry nor argument as they get up on their feet, a string of colourful curses spilling out of their breaths as they find a way out of this ridiculous test. Seeing as they clearly do not have a choice, they follow the instruction Ada mentioned moments ago: Sam quickly starts looking for a wretched letter on the desk which, much to his annoyance, doesn’t seem to be anywhere. They rummage through all the drawers and trays, between pages of books, until his attention falls on the scrabble board. Three words are arranged disconnectedly on top: _Under the city._ He surveys the desk once more, and really, thank God for whatever adrenaline possesses him because he finally understands the hint.

Sam lifts the heaps of manila folders on the desk. _There it is._ Underneath it is an envelope sealed with molten red wax. He carefully peels the stamp off, unfolds the old parchment inside it, and in legibly cursive handwriting, the letter goes:

_Oh drunkenly ore_  
 _ ~~What~~ I owed, I thankfully deny_

“Now that doesn’t even make any damn sense,” complains Victor. “How is that even a hint—“

“Fuck.” Sam sighs, lets out a laugh. It’s equally thrilling and hilarious that he realizes what the entire passage is with just one look. “An anagram.”

“A what?”

“It’s an anagram.” Sam grabs a pen, uses one of the folders to scrawl a series of letters and words. “Mom used to make Nathan and I solve loads of these when we were kids.”

“Well, I guess I’ll leave that to you,” says Victor. “You know how I’m no good with those things—”

“There you go.” Sam shows Victor his chicken-shit handwriting that reads:

_Look under Henry_   
_And you will find the key_

“Now that was fast,” Victor tells Sam, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Good job.”

Sam shoots him a smug smirk. “Did you really expect anything less from me?”

“Honestly, with you? I don’t know what to expect.”

“Right. I’ll be taking that as a compliment.”

“Take it however you like.” Victor laughs. “Anyway,” he says, clapping a hand over Sam’s shoulder, “this right here—” he taps a finger at the poorly scribbled sentences— “this has got to be that bronze bust of King Henry V over there.”

“Huh.” Sam tilts his head, puzzled. He turns his attention at the said bust, then back at Victor. “Wait, how did you know that that’s—”

“Henry’s hair is often depicted like that in paintings,” Victor explains. “And I caught a glimpse of the coat of arms a while back, and it’s similar to the Prince of Wales of old.”

“Well, look at you, good sir.” Sam flashes him an approving yet impish grin. “Pray tell, since when did you know a great deal about English kings?”

“Because I’ve been in this business a long time, and the majority of it I’ve spent with you and your brother to know history that it’s already beaten into my head against my will.” He slaps a hand against Sam’s back. “Now come on, time’s a-wastin’.”

Sam nods, still visibly amused. “Of course.”

As they hurry their way to the bronze bust to inspect the area, it dawns on Sam that it really is as Victor says: up close, the figurehead does resemble the image of King Henry V in most works of art. (Sam still knows these things like the back of his hand, much to his chagrin. Not that it matters.) There’s also the coat of arms Victor mentioned: three golden fleurs-de-lys on blue and three yellow lions on red, which are nicely emblazoned on top of elaborate engravings in the wooden pedestal. And in place of a proper nameplate for the monarch, a series of dots and dashes are carved on silver, something that both Sam and Victor recognize in an instant.

“Now it’s a morse code,” mutters Victor. Turning to Sam, he says, “You know what—let me take care of solving this and whatever’s in here. You take care of that ring.”

Sam stares at him. “Are you sure—“

“Sure as hell. You forget I was in the Navy, boy.” Victor laughs, but his laughter dissolves to a steady, measuring look. “Listen,” he says, lowering his voice, “you and I both know we don’t have that much time here, and we need to figure these things out fast before she kills us both—which I’m a hundred percent certain she’s capable of doing.”

“And how could you tell—“

“I shook her hand earlier, remember? I saw something on her cufflinks. It’s a—“

“Twenty minutes, gentlemen!” calls Ada from the other side of the room. 

“I’ll explain later,” Victor hurriedly tells Sam. “Don’t worry—I’ll give you a holler if I hit a dead end. Just get started with that ring.”

“Right, right, right. I got it.”

Sam settles in a nearby armchair, studies the ring again, concentrates on his task at hand. He tries his hardest not to dwell on whatever Victor was supposed to reveal about their cunning companion and channels every bit of wit he has to solve this. And he has to solve this—one way or another—because it would be really fucking hilarious if they were shot dead in a goddamn escape room underneath a posh pub in London. 

The nagging feeling returns as Sam wonders at the lines and curves of the ring, its familiarity a phantom thought that still eludes him. _I feel like I’ve seen something like this before,_ he thinks, tracing a careful finger over the carvings, running through the smooth edges of it… until he feels a small button-shaped lump from the inside.

_She mentioned a mechanism, so maybe..._

He presses the tiny thing, and it sinks with a click. Following his hunch, he fiddles with the ring a little more, tries to move a part of it clockwise, counterclockwise, _there._ Then it twists. It turns and turns and turns. And comes another click.

The ring looks nowhere near as it once was as four more bands fan out. The decorative elements take on a different appearance, too, and one of the inscriptions inside forms to read:

_Rex quondam, rexque futurus_

_“‘King once, and king in the future,’”_ mumbles Sam. “Hey Victor,” he calls out absently, “I—”

“I found something.” Victor comes up to Sam in a rush but stops when he sees the thing Sam is now holding up for him. “Well, would you look at that—finally cracked that pretty little thing,” he says, positively pleased.

“You bet. And it’s a goddamn armillary sphere. Here, look—” Sam stands up, hands it to Victor, watches him inspect it— “most of the symbols carved here are common in medieval Wales,” he points out. “And the Latin text—“

“—is something I assume you’ve already translated?”

Sam beams. “Again, did you really expect anything less of me?”

“Don’t push your luck.” Victor gives the sphere another good look before he returns it to Sam, who tucks it safely back in his pocket. 

“Anyway,” says Sam, holding one hand up, “how’s that pedestal over there? You mentioned you found something, too, right?”

“I sure did.” From his jacket pocket, Victor pulls out a small silver key with some sort of white fabric tied in a ribbon to its chain. “Turns out there’s a safe underneath the bust, and I managed to get this out of it. But… we still have another riddle in our hands. Have a look.”

Victor hands the key over to Sam and points out the ribbon. Sam unfolds it, and there he sees a nicely written text in script that goes:

_In your hands is the key to the right door_   
_Which one it is, you have to look for_   
_Be wise to blend the colours and you will survive_   
_To lead the way the lucky numbers are 9412794255_

“Goddamnit,” Sam hisses. “Okay, so obviously that key only opens one door.”

“Precisely. But I think the only thing that matters on what’s written here are the numbers, though honestly, I can’t make anything out of it,” admits Victor. “What do you think?”

Sam paces around the room, runs a fretful hand through his hair, reads the passage over and over. He plays all the possible permutations of the numbers in his head. “Well,” he says, “it couldn’t be a set of dates or a bunch of coordinates, that’s for sure. The number of digits doesn’t make sense.”

“How about a mobile number?” offers Victor.

“Hm. Maybe. 94 is a Sri Lankan code, though.”

“Jesus. Not an international call.”

“Yeah, well. Let’s just give it a try.”

Victor volunteers his mobile phone for Sam to attempt the call; he quickly dials the number, waits for the other line to ring. He endures the painful seconds of silence, until he hears an automated voice saying, _The number you have dialed is incorrect._ He redials, but he receives nothing but the same automated message. 

Sam sighs. “Ah, fuck. I guess this being a mobile number is now out of the options—“

“Ten minutes left!” Ada calls again, her heels now tapping against the floor like a ticking of a hurrying clock. 

“Shit.” Victor grits his teeth, his hand sweeping restlessly over his jaw. “It would take us days to scour every inch of this library that has those numbers,” he grumbles. He looks at Sam. “You know, how about we try calling Nate—”

“We’re not going to call Nathan,” Sam says sharply and almost immediately. The mere idea of asking his brother for help makes him bristle with annoyance. He can already hear Nathan at the other end of the line, chiding him for being unable to solve an escape room puzzle on his own. An escape room of all things. Not even a real fucking dungeon or a lost city. “We can do this,” he persists. “I just…”

Sam drifts off, looks around the room, wanders aimlessly, desperately, miserably. The study is littered with so many trivial things and trinkets that have absolutely nothing to do with the task in front of them. Frankly, this entire test has nothing to do with their fucking stint. He turns to one of the cameras up on the wall, stares at it for a brief, seething moment. If their benefactors are watching this, he hopes they are enjoying this goddamn waste of time. He wants to give these privileged assholes a piece of his mind for letting them run around in circles over this foolish test, but he knows quite well he couldn’t possibly do so. He has no choice but to take this seriously for the sake of professional courtesy. And so he does what he can, returning to survey the newspaper clippings he comes across, the heaps of notebooks, the ceramic jars, the labels on the shelves, the little numbers over the spines of books...

_Hold on. This place… holy shit._

“Hey Victor, go look for a book with the code 942.55,” Sam says urgently.

“What? Why—”

“The numbers on the ribbon, 941.27 and 942.55, it’s the Dewey Decimal Code,” he rambles, almost breathless with certainty and excitement. “You know, the ones—”

“—used in a library. Yes, I know.” 

“Anyway, 900 is usually classified for World History, so now we have to find two books under that category with those codes.”

Victor no longer leaves any room for protest as they both dart past armchairs, past the sofas and Ada’s watchful gaze, and down the other side of the room. They hastily search the shelves on World History, scanning for the titles bearing the numbers they need. Sam is beyond grateful to whoever arranged these books in immaculate order as he easily stumbles upon the first one: a red hardcover of _The History of Kings of Britain_ by Geoffrey Monmouth. Meanwhile, not a moment later, Victor finds the last: a blue leather bound copy of _The Welsh Kings_ by K.L. Maund. They make haste leafing through the pages, looking for clues that would finally lead them to end this stupid test once and for all. But much to their dismay, they find nothing.

“Five minutes left!” Ada reminds loudly from behind them. “You two are taking far too long, ah? Here I was expecting you’d finish this in less than ten minutes.”

Sam turns to her and gives her one shit-eating grin. “Sorry to disappoint if we’re not doing fucking well under pressure—“

“Four minutes and fifty seconds, Mr. Drake.” 

“Son of a bitch,” hisses Victor, snapping the book shut. “I’m running out of ideas. Maybe it’s the colour of the book?” 

Sam shakes his head. “It can’t be. I mean, look—these are two different...”

Just as he trails off, the realization of the answer hits him like a speeding bus. _Blend the colours._ He stares at the three doors, bright and vibrant and glaring at him like someone else’s Pantone palette gone wrong. Not hers. And all at once, he is no longer in the study but somewhere in Ikea, standing in the middle of the paint aisle, arguing about her firm views on colour shades, _I love you, Samuel, but there is a Great Wall of China of difference between lilac and purple, just as cyan is different from blue—_

“Two minutes!” Ada’s voice is a crystal clear cut that swiftly snaps Sam out of it.

_For the love of god, get your shit together._

Sam clears his throat, looks at Victor. “You’re right,” he says. “It has to do with the colour of _both_ books... when mixed together. The right door should be the purple one.”

“So I’ll let you do the honours, then.” Victor hands over the key to Sam, rests a steady hand on his shoulder, smiles his usual cheeky smile. 

Sam shrugs, heads for the door with Victor just right behind him, and Ada watching them both like a hawk from afar. As he stops in front of the purple door, he briefly glances at her to measure her expression; her face is just as empty as a blank sheet of paper. Well, no surprise there. He reluctantly inserts the key, hopes to God it turns—and it does. A sharp, resounding click.

The door opens into a dark corridor. It smells of wood and citrus. Down the hall, Sam can hear a whisper of a piano crooning a familiar melody and… a barking dog?

“Well done,” says Ada, not even looking a bit pleased. “But how about the ring—“

“The ring you got here is actually an armillary sphere.” Sam scoops it out of his pocket and holds it out for her to see. He cannot help the cocky smile that tugs the corners of his mouth. 

Still, Ada remains unfazed. She nods, looking at the little golden thing in his hand, her face stern. After an excruciating second, she meets his eyes, says, “Well done, indeed.” 

“Okay, great. Now,” answers Sam, tempering the edge of his impatience in his voice, “can we finally meet whoever is in charge of all of this?”

“Of course,” Ada replies flatly. “Just right through the purple door, gentlemen.”

One of the many things Sam has drilled and fine-tuned into the kind of life that he leads is to remain vigilant at all costs. To get too comfortable with the smallest of triumphs is just as dangerous as leaving your back turned to a person you hardly even know. He knows this better than anyone else. 

And so as he and Victor walk out of the door ahead of Ada, he realizes a second too late that they had been careless. She already fooled them once; shame on them for letting her fool them twice. Before he can even turn around, a sharp pinprick stings the back of his neck. He would have mistaken it for an itch or an insect bite, but the effect of it is almost immediate. His vision starts to blur. He cannot feel his hands, his knees, his feet. He staggers against a wall as the world spins on and on and on.

The last thing he knows is his body falling face first and meeting the floor with a loud thud, and as everything goes black, he hears once again that same voice that won’t leave him alone, begging and calling, _Please be careful, come home, come back home to me._

* * *

Sam wakes in a groggy, dizzying haze. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he hears fragments of an argument that sound a little like, _You didn’t have to do that_ and _I had to so I am not sorry_ and _can we just untie him please_ and _I’ll be right back._ And then comes a slam of a door and a loud bark. Is that a dog? At this point, he can’t say for sure. He forces himself to listen again, to pick out the voices, yet in his poor state, he struggles to find the strength to concentrate. He blinks once, twice, sluggishly looks around; the brightness of the room is a blinding assault, and the pain returns as though his head had been bludgeoned by a baseball bat. He tries to reach for the back of his neck but soon realizes that he couldn’t move his hands. Something rough scratches against his wrists. He looks down and finds his hands are tied over an arm of a chair where he is sloppily seated. 

_What the fuck..._

Sam straightens himself to focus. He attempts to yank himself free when someone appears from behind him.

“Hi,” says a boy in a black sweater and jeans, who crouches next to his seat and somehow begins to help Sam in untying his ropes. “I’m really sorry about all of this. I truly am. I told Miss Gyasi it was unnecessary but she insisted on taking precautions for our safety.” He is British, his accent distinctly Mancunian and his voice a soft and silvery rumble, a growing thing. 

“Miss… Gyasi?” Sam says weakly as he tries to steal a better look at the kid. Beneath his dark curly hair is a pale and handsome face, and he appears to be around sixteen or seventeen. Or probably even younger. A faint scar runs over his right eyebrow. Freckles dot the bridge of his nose and travel all the way under his clear gray eyes. He’s tall and lanky, and his posture a little slacked as though he already carries the weariness the world has to offer. But there’s a smartness to him, Sam can tell. A certain smartness that is sly and cunning and geared to outwit.

“Miss Gyasi is the lady who ushered you in,” replies the boy. “And if you’re wondering where Mr. Sullivan is, he’s right over there—oh hey, Blackbeard. Play nice.”

A black dog scurries next to them—a Labrador retriever by the looks of it—and starts sniffing Sam as though to inspect if he is a friend or a foe. Then the dog sits by the boy’s side, tilts its head at Sam, watches him expectantly with those big brown eyes. 

“Why Blackbeard?” Sam could not help but ask. 

The boy looks at him curiously. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, why name your dog after a violent and scheming pirate?”

“Oh. I don’t know. I suppose it’s a play for colour, for one. But mostly for the irony of it. Because my Blackbeard—” the boy scratches the dog behind his ear— “is the exact opposite. He’s gentle and loyal. Never leaves my side, or my family’s.” 

Sam nods. “Right. Of course.” 

He smiles kindly. “It’s okay, he doesn’t bite.” Shortly after, all the ropes are cut loose and fall freely on the floor. He stands up. “There, all done.”

“Uh—thank you.” Sam rubs his wrists. He looks at the boy and his dog, then lets his gaze wander around the room. This time, he finally registers his surroundings: a command room of sorts, eggshell-white walls mounted with a checkered grid of high-definition monitors, each screen displaying different angles of the study earlier. Directly in front of him is a messy round table of charts and maps and empty porcelain teacups. He also notices the neatly-lined cords on the ground, some piles of paperback books, leftovers of Marks & Spencer cookies, two sleeping bags, a jar of Marmite, a box of camping equipment, an unfinished game of Monopoly. 

Shifting in his seat, he looks behind him and sees a small kitchen alcove where he finds Victor standing by a coffee maker.

“Oh, good—you’re finally awake.” 

Victor saunters up to him with a nice cup of coffee in hand, the smell of which is outrageously crisp and decadent. He takes the empty seat next to him. By the looks of it, he seems fine and completely unhurt. “How’re you feeling?” 

“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say a close eleven,” Sam says tartly, rubbing the back of his head. He looks at Victor, raises a brow, particularly puzzled. “Hold on, how come you’re up and about? What on earth happened?”

“So,” Victor begins, “as you may or may not remember, the lady tranquilized us on our way out, brought us here, then she woke us up a few moments later. And while I managed to get my bearings, you kind of…” He hesitates, stares at his cup. 

“What?”

“You tried to tackle the boy while calling for Jane.”

Sam opens his mouth, but no words come. Good god. He feels his face is about to combust in red-hot embarrassment. Honestly, he isn’t even the least annoyed to learn that Victor thought of restraining him after all… _that._ Heck, he would have probably asked Victor to do his worst, say, bury him alive and let the earth swallow him whole to save them both the shame.

“Anyway, you’ve been out for about an hour, and this young man—” Victor jerks his head towards the boy, sips his coffee— “has been helping me look after you.” 

Sam sighs. “Shit, look, I’m sorry—”

“Oh no, no, it’s alright,” the boy says, waving a shy hand. He has a fidgety quality about him, and next to his canine companion, he is like a nervous puppy. “Ada mentions that her tranquilizer drug has varying effects on people,” he goes on to explain. “She says that sort of thing happens. Yours isn’t out of the ordinary. Which is why she had to… tie you up.” 

“Right. Okay.” Sam nods slowly. “So where is she now? And I hope you don’t mind me asking but—”

Sam is cut short when a girl in a gray long-sleeved flannel shirt marches through the door, startling all of them out of the conversation. She doesn’t seem to mind the disturbance she stirred as she struggles to carry a brown paper bag full of takeaway boxes, which she properly sets down on the table before them. 

“There you go, brother. Feeding our company as promised,” she beams, slapping a hand over the boy’s shoulder, then turning to look at Victor. Then at Sam. “Oh. Hello.”

The boy clears his throat, smiles awkwardly. “Forgive my sister’s lack of manners, just as if you could forgive mine,” he says, looking a little flushed. “I realized I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Scout and this is my younger sister—”

“Bonnie. Bonnie Rhys.” She extends a hand, eagerly shaking Sam’s and Victor’s as they extend theirs. “And he’s my twin brother, so technically I’m not younger than him,” she adds. She has the same Mancunian accent, her voice light and breezy. “We’re of the same age. Don’t let him make you believe otherwise.” 

Scout rolls his eyes at her. Bonnie simply returns it with a cheeky grin.

Sam immediately notices the obvious: unlike Scout, Bonnie brings an air of confidence in her posture and stride, a commanding presence as if she can part the sea. She bears it just as well in her bright blue eyes, a strange and striking contrast to her brown hair dyed in a pretty pomelo pink. And there is that energy of wit and slyness to her, too—something she clearly shares with her oddly timid brother.

“I’m tellin’ you,” says Bonnie, pulling out a chair across Sam, “you’re about to taste one of the best fish and chips in the city.” She begins digging out cardboard boxes and root beer cans and wooden forks from the paper bag. She distributes it around the table, and she doesn’t even wait for the rest as she opens her own share, slicing a huge chunk from her golden beer-battered cod. “Sorry. I’m starving. And it’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re thinking.” She looks at Sam and Victor, smiles at them between chews. “I figured you’re both hungry so I asked Big Barry from the pub to fry those to perfection—“

“Hey, uh... we really appreciate the offer,” says Sam, pushing his takeaway box aside, folding his hands over the table, “and I don’t mean to be rude to you kids but we’re actually here to meet someone.” 

Scout and Bonnie trade a knowing glance that appears to translate as _Is this guy for real._ A strange pause settles. Now that Sam has sobered up, there’s no use to beat around the bush and prolong their agony. 

“I think it’s high time we get down to business after what your good friend Ada has put us through,” he continues, his tone all at once serious. “So do you know where she is? She said she’d be taking us to our client—“

“And you’re already in the right place.” Bonnie grins, spears another piece of cod for a bite. She seems rather unfazed with Sam’s urgency. “Oh and Ada’s having a drink upstairs. Don’t worry, we’re about to get down to business soon—Scout is just waiting for the script he’s running from the server to finish.”

Sam and Victor look at each other. It’s ridiculous how the realization hits them both all at once.

“So… let me get this straight,” says Victor, still sounding a little doubtful, “you two… you’re our clients?”

“Um. Were you expecting someone in a nice suit?” Bonnie casually quips. She grabs a can of root beer, peels the tab ring and it cracks open with a hiss, takes a gulp. “And can I just say, we’ve been trying to crack that ring for days and you solved it in no less than five minutes. I’m impressed.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Sam exhales a dry laugh. “You two were the ones who’ve been watching us the whole time, huh.”

“Yes, very much so,” admits Scout. “You two had us at the edge of our seats and—oh, sorry. Just a moment.”

Scout drifts to the other end of the room where a bird-like sound chimes from one of the monitors. Not a little while later, he returns with a laptop in hand and sits right next to his sister. By his side, Blackbeard is all perked up and excitedly wagging his tail, as if expecting to be given a good portion of fish and chips as well now that his human companion has taken his seat. Scout then steals a couple of chips from Bonnie’s box and feeds it to Blackbeard, and the dog parks himself at his feet, feasting on his stolen share. The glare Bonnie gives him might have severed a man’s head, but Scout only shrugs it off. He seems to be so used to it.

“Right, anyway,” Scout goes on, “we sent the excavation map to your mail a couple of days ago. So far, what did you make of it?”

Sam looks thoughtful. “Truth be told,” he says, leaning more forward against the table, “I’d say I’m more curious to know how kids like you got your hands on something like—”

“Now I’m afraid I have to stop you right there, Mr. Drake,” Bonnie cuts in sharply. She primly sets down her fork, wipes the side of her mouth, and leans forward to the table, too, as if to challenge Sam. “First thing you have to know is that my brother and I, we’re _not_ kids.” She says this as if being branded as a kid is the biggest offense.

Sam grins amusedly. “Okay then. So how old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“No, you’re not.”

She glowers at him. “Fine. Seventeen, and that’s the truth of it.”

“See, the fact that there is literally the word ‘teen’ in there still makes you a child.”

“And the fact that you started your tomb raiding career at a tender age of thirteen in Boston makes you no different from us, which also makes you the least qualified in this room to make assumptions on what we can and cannot do just because we’re teenagers.”

Sam tries to form a comeback but falters. Meanwhile, Victor simply shakes his head and laughs. To think he’d been rendered speechless... Sam finds himself laughing, too. He has to admit: that is one cutting rebuttal coming from a seventeen-year-old. Neither he nor Nathan was _that_ clever at that age. But to say that he was ill-prepared to have the subject of his humble beginnings be brought up so lightly into the existing conversation would be an understatement. 

“Okay, fine—you’re right,” Sam yields as gracefully as he could. “Now tell me, how did you—”

“Find out everything there is to know about you?” Bonnie leans back in her seat, arms crossed over her chest. “Sure, we weren’t really expecting Mr. Sullivan to have additional company… but it really doesn’t take long for us to look someone up and gather quite a number of interesting results.”

_Christ almighty._ “Right,” Sam says dryly. “Of course you did.”

“Alright then,” says Victor, “is that the reason why Ada keeps you two company?” Something about the way he asks the question seems to insinuate a sneaking suspicion. Then, he adds, “She’s from the Interpol, isn’t she?”

The inquiry of it is not worded to beg for an answer but a confirmation. The twins trade another one of those knowing glances. 

“Well, that’s an astute observation,” replies Scout after a brief silence. “Yes, she is indeed from the Interpol. She’s a friend, and I can assure you that she means well despite her… extreme measures. And this might sound as a surprise, but we didn’t need Miss Gyasi’s help to gather the intel we needed about the both of you. My sister and I, we could do it on our own.” He smiles. Somehow, his timidity has now been aptly hardened by tenacity. “But we’re not here to discuss all that, aren’t we? I believe the reason why we arranged this meeting is all about finding Owain Glyndŵr’s tomb, no?”

“Yes, that’s right, but—”

“With all due respect, good sirs, the less you know about us, the better,” Scout counters crisply. “Isn’t that a cardinal rule in engaging with affairs such as these? Besides, we are of no importance compared to what you’ll find on this trip.”

Victor nods. Then he sighs, and an amused smile finds its way on his face. “Well, that’s a very good point. You know, you kids make me feel young again.”

“I… uh, thanks?” Scout frowns, confused. “I’m not sure I follow, though.”

“Let’s just say you remind me of a smart-ass kid I used to work with back in the day.”

“Oh. Right.”

A pensive pause. Under the table, Blackbeard happens to have fallen asleep, his snoring a steady buzz that hums all over the room.

“So why exactly do you want us to take on the impossible task of finding Glyndŵr’s tomb and this crown?” Sam presses, dissolving the silence. “I mean, sure, you sent us a map of the possible location, but how do you know for sure that that’s the real deal? As far as all archaeological accounts are concerned, no one has ever found clues leading to his final resting place. No one even knows when or how he died.”

“Really now?” Scout purses his lips, considers Sam for a moment. “And this is coming from the man who went through lengths to find Avery’s fabled treasure and actually finding the damned thing.”

Sam stares at this kid, stunned by the cavalier way he speaks his mind. _The boy has fangs, I’ll give him that,_ he thinks. This quiet but snarky boy does know how to push the right buttons. “Okay, kid—that’s different,” he parries. “We had strong leads, and that was a thoroughly researched—”

“There had been an ongoing investigation in line with uncovering more about Glyndŵr’s history in the late ’70s, and much like whatever business you had with Avery, this effort had strong leads and thoroughly researched, too,” Scout points out. “The only difference was the whole project was indefinitely shelved and left without a team to pursue it.” He leaves his seat for a moment and returns with a stack of worn-out leather notebooks. The weight of it greets with a thud as he sets it on the table. “These are just some of the abandoned and unpublished research notes about Glyndŵr spanning decades.” He shrugs. “Nevertheless, one of the things they initially found was a collection of letters in Herefordshire written by one Alys Scudamore.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “Wait, that’s… Owain’s daughter.”

“Yes, precisely. And how we figured a possible location was based on this letter she wrote right here, addressed to her mother, Margaret Hanmer.” Scout grabs one of the journals from the stack, flips the pages to a clipped letter written in Welsh that dates back sometime in 1417, and shows it to both Sam and Victor. Taped next to it are maps and a post-it annotation for the English translation of the text that reads:

_Dearest Mother,_

_I have done what Father asked. He insisted on keeping the Bardsey scroll inside the coronet, and so we have brought him underneath the fortress deep in the heart of the Vale where no man shall ever find him. Only us._

"Now this... is promising." Sam stares at Scout. “Did you translate this?” 

“No. My Welsh is far too inferior to translate any of this,” Scout says sheepishly. Somehow, his expression softens into a sad smile. “It was actually my grandfather.”

“Oh. Historian or archaeologist?”

“Both.”

“Huh. Right.” The smile that crosses Sam’s face seems more like a small wince. _It’s like looking in a goddamn mirror._

Sam picks up another journal, skims carefully through its pages. Most of the handwriting is barely legible, a slapdash arrangement of scrawls and scribbles. Whoever documented these notes was clearly devoted to the study, he decides. The annotations, the properly authenticated texts, and all the references, he can tell how these things were prepared with the greatest attention to detail. 

“Look, not much is known about the Glyndŵr children, but there were circulating stories in Wales about Alys and how she religiously chronicled her father’s rebellion and the later years of his life,” he says absently as he scans one page to the next, as if talking to no one in particular. “That said, these are just... these are already a major discovery in and of itself. And as for the location…” He returns to the map shown in the other journal. It’s a recent printout, the only clipping that is obviously out of place among the yellowed pages of the notebook. “You say it’s somewhere in South Wales, isn’t it?”

The twins nod earnestly. 

“Actually,” says Bonnie, “about that, we were thinking it’s in—”

“Craig y Dinas,” Sam offers with a tone of certainty. “Which is literally Welsh for Fortress Rock, and it’s somewhere near the Vale of Neath. And by the looks of it, it fits the general description Alys mentioned in her letter. Is that right?”

The twins nod again and exchange another one of those _Is this guy even for real_ glances.

“Uh, well… that sounds about right,” agrees Bonnie. “Nice going, Sherlock.”

“Okay, then where does this fit in all of this?” Sam fishes out the gold ring from his pocket, places it on the table. 

“Now that—” This time, Bonnie takes another journal from the pile— “that belongs to Alys. Here.” She turns the page to an entry with a clipping of a letter. “It was gifted to her by her father. And… well. Scout had to run a script to help me authenticate the text because… it sounds completely mental.”

Sam raises a brow. “How so?”

“It’s best if you read it,” says Scout. He swivels the screen of his laptop to face both Sam and Victor, and it displays the scanned version of the letter along with its English translation. The date is earlier, sometime in 1410. It reads:

_Mother,_

_I think Father is going mad. After his long journey to Bardsey Island, he’s been acting rather strange. He speaks of a meeting with the “true king to rule over Britain,” and a cup where water overflows. He even gave me this ring as a gift, something he says he found on the island, asking me to keep it safe until this king returns._

“Now that... is quite something,” says Victor, clearly in disbelief. “And Bardsey Island? Isn’t that the one they believe to be Avalon in the Arthurian legend?”

“The very same,” says Sam. “Jesus, this is… insane.” He sighs, falters, shakes his head. He takes the ring again, lets it unravel into its other form, thumbs the inscription written on its golden surface.

_Rex quondam, rexque futurus. King once, and king in the future._

“So,” Sam says after a thoughtful silence, “I guess some of Alys’s letters strongly suggest Glyndŵr’s fascination with King Arthur, and... finding his tomb and the coronet might shed some light on that.” 

“Perhaps,” says Victor. This time, he finally opens his takeaway box and spears a portion of the battered cod. “I can already tell this is going to be one hell of a trip.”

Sam smiles with an excitement he hasn’t felt in a long time since Avery. “Not just that. I can tell that we got ourselves a treasure hunt of a lifetime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commentaries No One Asked For:
> 
> 1\. This is very dialogue-heavy and painfully long, and for that I am not sorry at all because I enjoyed writing this very much. I could have easily narrated the events and skipped the entire ordeal, but I wanted to establish and explore the dynamics between Sam/Sully, Sam/Sully/twins by letting them interact and get at each other's throats with their silly banter.  
> 2\. I love my teenage twins so much. So, so much it hurts, even though they can be annoying as fuck.  
> 3\. I also love drawing parallels and dropping large-ass hints, if that isn't obvious yet. 🥴


End file.
